


Phoenix Out of Blood

by shealynn88



Category: Heroes (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Dystopia, Episode: s01e20 Five Years Gone, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-13
Updated: 2012-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-14 04:17:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shealynn88/pseuds/shealynn88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A girl in danger.  Two strangers in an Impala.  A country on the brink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phoenix Out of Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for 'All Hell Breaks Loose II' (SPN), 'Five Years Gone' (Heroes)
> 
> Written for apocalyptothon, 2007.
> 
> Character death is all pre-story.

* * *

_“The mark of your ignorance is the depth of your belief in injustice and tragedy. What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly.”_  
—Richard Bach

* * *

Dean's eyes are on the road but he still feels Sam stiffen in the passenger seat. When he glances over, Sam's eyes are narrowed in pain and his hand is clenched on the door handle.

If they were anywhere else Sam would just be popping aspirin and claiming a migraine. One of these days, someone's going to see through it.

Dean clenches his teeth and turns his attention back to the road, waiting. He hates feeling helpless.

"Pull over," Sam finally gasps.

They're on the run, driving through a small town likely to be filled with small-minded people. Dean just wants to keep moving. "Sam, do you really think—"

" _Pull over!_ "

There's a little café up ahead and Dean pulls in. "What did you see?"

Sam's eyes are still crinkled with pain and the muscles in his jaw jump when he speaks. "A girl. Young. Dark hair."

Dean looks past him. "Round face, worried look?"

Sam glances at him in surprise. "Yeah. How did you—"

Dean points and they watch the girl slide against the side of the building, a paper bag in hand. She glances behind her every few seconds. Her face is soft and round—almost childlike—and her build is compact and muscular but she doesn't move like an athlete. 

Jo would have wiped the floor with her.

Dean halts that train of thought abruptly. "She one of you?" he asks, not taking his eyes off the girl.

"I think so. Come on." Sam opens the door and is striding toward her before Dean can grab him.

"Damn it!" Dean follows, slamming the door of the Impala and jogging to keep up. "You're just gonna scare her," he warns under his breath.

"We don't have much time, Dean. Something's coming."

"Yeah. Which is why _we_ need to get out of here." Dean gestures briefly. "What would they want with _her_ , anyway?"

Sam just looks over at him grimly and doesn't answer.

It's a question born of bitterness, and one that hasn't needed an answer for a long time. Whoever they are, they want her to stop being special. Or they want to use it—whatever her ability is—for themselves. Or they want to study her until she isn't _her_ anymore.

The option just depends on who the 'them' is.

Sam's right. Dean can admit that, if only to himself. But every time they save someone, they make themselves a target. They make _Sam_ a target, and Dean's not sure exactly what would happen to him without Sam.

He'd rather not find out.

They reach the girl and Sam leans in. "We're here to help you," he says quietly. "We need to go. Now."

Her eyes flicker between the two of them and then she sprints toward the parking lot.

Dean rolls his eyes. Sam's too damn honest to be good with people. "Man…" He shakes his head and sighs, and then they both take off after her.

The world slows around them as the girl digs in her heels and kicks up Texas dust. Dean sees a heavyset guy in a dark suit coming out the front door as the girl turns back toward them and then stops, like she's trying to decide who's the greater threat.

In the meantime, the man calls out to her, lips turning up in a pompous smile. "Claire!" It's almost teasing. 

Dean sees the weapon and stoops, mid-stride, to pull his 9 mm. He should be wearing his .45, but he honestly hadn't expected trouble in Bennett's territory. He should know by now—trouble follows Sam everywhere.

There are two more men getting out of a dark sedan, and it's clear now who 'they' are—the Organization. Just the people he and his brother need to piss off. 

He'd swear under his breath, but he doesn't have the time or the lung capacity.

Sam tackles the heavyset guy just as he pulls the trigger and Dean reaches the girl as she crumples. Oh, yeah. That's a government issue taser, right there.

Dean catches her with one arm and then fires at one of the agents until he falls.

In the moment of quiet that follows, Dean plucks the electrodes from the girl's chest and tosses her over his shoulder, and then the agents are moving and he's running for his life.

He fires twice more before he's out of ammo and then all he's got left is one small knife and the hope that he can get it to fly blade-first. He flips the knife in his free hand so he has the blade between forefinger and thumb and then lets it drop to his side as Sam clubs the last guy over the head with his partner's gun.

"Come on!" Sam yells, but Dean's already flipped the blade back and is running for the car as he sheathes it. He shifts the girl on his shoulder as he runs and feels her starting to twitch.

Sam gets there first and starts the car. There was a time when the idea of Sam driving the Impala would have put Dean over the edge, but he abandoned that around the fifth time Sam tried to die on him. About the time they lost Jo.

There are more important things in life. Not many, but some.

Dean tosses the girl unceremoniously in the backseat and then climbs over into the front as Sam hits the gas. They're back on the road before any of the agents are standing, but their cover is blown again and they're going to need to work twice as hard to get back under the radar.

"Damn it," Dean growls, punching the dashboard. 

Sam checks the rearview. "We're okay."

Dean turns toward him, furious because he doesn't _get_ scared. He won't let himself. "No, Sam! We're not okay! Three of them made us back there. You thought we were high profile before? It was hard to get things done? Well, Sammy-boy, it just got worse."

"Who are you guys?" The girl forestalls the all-out war Dean's gearing up for, and Dean glares back at her—to find that she's fully awake and sitting up. The last time Sam got hit with one of those things, he was out for twenty minutes. It's been less than five.

Dean pushes down his unease and leers at her. "Good morning, sunshine," he manages. A few years ago, he would turned on the charm to get her into bed. Now he turns it on to look normal. He just wants to drop her off somewhere before she gets them killed. Or they do the same for her.

"Hey," Sam says. "What's your name?"

The girl starts to answer but Dean interrupts, raising his hands. "Oh, no, no. We don't even want to know. We'll drop you off at the next gas station and be on our way. You can forget we even stopped."

"Dean," Sam hisses. "We can't just leave her."

Dean smiles widely and growls under his breath, "Yes, we can. We saved her from those guys, Sam. Mission accomplished."

"Those guys weren't the problem."

Dean stiffens. "They weren't what you…" he trails off. The last thing he needs is to give the girl any ammunition when they let her off. 

Let her think they're just thrill-seekers.

"No," Sam says flatly. "They're not."

Dean swears under his breath and turns back toward the girl. Christ, she looks like the recoil of a .45 would set her on her ass.

He pastes on a smile as a temporary cease-fire. He and Sam will talk about this later. "So," he drawls. "What's your name?"

She folds her arms in front of her and frowns like a spoiled adolescent. That's going to get real old, real fast. "Tara," she says quietly. "Tara Dailey."

"Really? Sounded like that guy back there called you 'Claire.'"

She looks at him, a challenge in her eyes. He'd appreciate the spunk more if she didn't look so…soft.

She shrugs. "He was wrong."

"Oh, really? You seemed to recognize him. Were you wrong, too?"

"Dean!"

He ignores Sam. "So, is it Claire? Or Tara? We'd just like to know who it is we're sticking our necks out for."

Sam punches him low on the arm so the girl can't see, and Dean files that away for payback later. He keeps the smile in place and watches her closely. 

She doesn't say a thing and Dean opens his mouth again, only to get drowned out by the easy listening station that's the only one they've been able to get in a fifty mile radius.

Dean turns back abruptly, smacking Sam in the head to show his appreciation before turning the volume down to something less than earsplitting. As soon as he can think again, he starts scrambling through the glove compartment for a CD. But when the news starts, he freezes.

" _…local rancher Noah Bennett was shot and killed today by employee Hana Gitelman. Local authorities reveal that Gitelman was a fugitive, and Homeland Security is said to have her in custody…_ "

Dean looks over to find Sam looking at him grimly.

"Wait," the girl says, leaning forward. "Can—can you turn that up?"

Dean exchanges another glance with Sam. "Someone you know?"

She's quiet for a long moment. "No," she says finally. "Just weird, you know? I mean, a fugitive, _here_."

"Yeah," Dean agrees, looking pointedly at Sam. "Weird."

***

Her father is dead. As much as she'd hated the way he shifted her from place to place, she'd known that he did it because he loved her.

She'd thought he'd be doing it forever.

It's a hard blow to take when the miles are stretching between her and Andy—her one last link to 'normal'. 

She tries not to think about how much she'll miss him—she's being dragged God-knows-where by two guys who look a little rough around the edges. Maybe they're like her. Maybe they just want to help.

But she hasn't stayed out of trouble for five years by trusting people. Her father taught her that. She can live through a lot but it doesn't mean she wants to.

They stop at a tiny hotel and the shorter one rents a room. She learned his name in the car. Dean.

Sam apologizes for not getting her her own space. Dean looks bored and a little annoyed. "Which bed do you want?" he asks. She shrugs and watches him make his way around the room, inspecting the windows. They move like animals. 

Bounty hunters have been getting rich off people with abilities. And they're not usually very careful about the shape people end up in, prior to being turned in.

Claire shivers.

"Okay," Dean says, not seeming to notice. "Sam and I will take this one," he says, gesturing at the bed closest to the door. She's not sure if the selection is to keep her in or other people out. Either way, she doesn't like it.

Sam looks like he's going to protest, but gets a raised eyebrow in response. "Don't you dare complain. You're the one with the flying elbows."

It reminds her of Kyle, and there's one sharp stab of homesickness before she pulls herself together.

"Fine," Sam mumbles darkly, throwing the duffel bag on the bed.

Claire doesn't have anything with her. Not even the paper bag with her new identity—the last thing her father ever gave her. "I have to go to the bathroom," she says past the rushing in her ears.

"You don't need permission. It's right there," Dean says, gesturing vaguely as he rummages through the bag Sam threw on the bed. Claire sees the glint of gun-metal as she walks by and her throat tightens.

If she screams, no one will hear her.

She locks the door behind her and pulls out her cell phone. That, at least, is still in her pocket. Apparently they'd been too busy to frisk her while she was out. She calls Andy and lets it ring. "Come on," she whispers. "Pick up..." 

After eight rings she gets his voice mail. She wants to scream and cry and ask him for help, but what happened to her father is fresh in her mind.

Finally, she leaves a carefully worded message. "Hey, Andy. It's Sandra. I...I really need to talk to you. Call me as soon as you can." 

She doesn't want to think about the possibility of someone else getting the message, but it's another reason not to leave details.

She'd always told her dad he was being paranoid when he warned her about conspiracies and bounty hunters and government organizations. But she'd always known there was some amount of truth to it. Always known and wished she didn't.

Now she's glad, and it's too late to thank him.

It's up to her, now. Up to her to get out of here and back to Andy. 

He's the closest thing she's got to family.

She looks around the bathroom for a way out, but the only window is high on the wall and far too small for her to climb through. 

It has to be the front door, then.

***

Dean hears the deadbolt slide back, and his first reaction is relief. Let her go. She's not their responsibility. She has no place in this war, anyway. She's young and soft and looks like she's never so much as thrown a punch in her life.

And then he remembers Jo.

He thinks about the satisfied look on the agent's face when he tasered the girl, like she was important...like he wouldn't give up. Dean can't just let her go back. Like it or not, she's part of this, now. And he can't watch anyone else die. There are too many behind him, already beyond help.

Sam stirs next to him as the door clicks shut behind the girl, but Dean puts a hand on his brother's arm and shakes his head as Sam opens his eyes. "I've got her," he says quietly.

He doesn't see her immediately, but he knows she'll head back toward the café. Its basic psychology—familiar ground. Fifteen years of hunting trumps a college education, at least for stuff like this.

He takes him time tracking her, staying back until they're almost halfway there, and then he moves in.

"Okay," he finally says gruffly, and it gives him a thrill of satisfaction when she jumps. "I think you've had enough fun for tonight; time to head back."

She looks back at him like he's her worst nightmare come to life, and then she fumbles in her pocket and points his own gun at him with shaking hands.

He feels his face go smooth with anger. The world slows and he knows he could break her a thousand different ways—her wrist, her knee, her fingers—and make sure she'd never try anything like this again.

She's practically begging for it, holding his gun on him like that—sloppy and determined. But there's no need for it, and he's almost sorry. If she was actually threatening his life, he might be able to hate her. He might be able to leave her behind and never look back.

He takes two quick steps forward and pulls the gun away, grabbing her arm as he does to keep her from running. He doesn't feel like chasing her through the brush this late at night. He's likely to twist an ankle—he's not as young as he used to be.

She looks up at him with eyes wide as saucers, and when he shows her the gun her eyes get wider—he hadn't even thought that was possible.

"It's hard to shoot someone with the safety on," he says dryly, flicking it off and then back on again. Her eyes get marginally smaller when he stuffs it in his waistband. "Also helps if it's loaded."

He starts to turn them back toward the hotel but she digs her heels in. He speaks slowly and hopes he's clear, because she's really starting to annoy him. "My brother has a lot more patience than I do for this stuff. If you want to throw a tantrum, save it for him." He yanks at her arm but she's still won't follow, despite the fact that she's obviously petrified. 

Dean takes a deep breath. "I don't know if you noticed, but we saved your life back there. My brother…he has this thing about helping people. It's kind of a complex. He's gonna be really upset if I let you go back there and get yourself killed, okay?"

"I have to go back," she says, and he gives her points for keeping her voice steady. Her chin juts out and it reminds him of Jo. Damn, but that girl was stubborn. He smiles briefly before he remembers how irritated he is.

"The Organization is after you. Do you know what that means?" She just looks at him, mouth a thin line. Stubborn.

He gives her a little shake, but it doesn't have much effect. "There's nothing _left_ there for you. That's what the Organization does. Everyone there knows what you are, now. Believe me, you don't _want_ to go back."

She shakes her head. "I _have_ to. There's someone…" She looks stricken, like she's said too much, and then she just finishes shortly, "I have to."

He smiles down at her and hopes it makes him look harmless and hormonal. The girls used to like that smile, back when he really had the chance to use it. "Young love, huh?" He shakes his head. "Tell you what—come back to the room. Let me sleep. In the morning, Sam and I will check the place out and, if it's safe, we'll get you back in. Okay?"

Her eyes flicker over his face, as if she thinks she can tell if he's lying, just by staring at him. She can't be more than seven years younger than he is, but the way she's watching him tells him she's more naïve than those years can account for.

"Okay," she finally agrees.

He lets go of her arm and they head back to the hotel.

***

She wants to go back. She wants to be with Andy again and forget about the Organization, and she wants to have that slightly irritating feeling of her father watching over her.

But she knows that's not going to happen, and what Dean says makes sense. He's cautious like her father was, and it makes him feel trustworthy.

It probably doesn't mean anything, but she needs to believe that he's not going to hurt her. 

Sam opens the door as soon as they've cleared the trees and gestures them inside, staring behind them like he expects company. When they've crossed the threshold he looks her over, his forehead creased with worry. "Are you all right?" he asks. "It's not safe for you out there. You need to stay with us until we figure out what's—"

"Sam, could you mother hen outside? Or at least more quietly? Some of us were hoping to get some sleep." 

Sam glares.

"And by 'some of us,' I mean, me." Dean points at the door.

For a second Claire thinks Sam might start a fight, but finally he just gestures her outside.

There's some rusted patio furniture to one side, and he pulls out a seat for her.

"I have visions," he says. She stares at him in surprise. It's a dangerous thing to tell a stranger. "I see the future and I try to stop it."

It takes her a minute to process, and then she thinks about how they met. "The agents. Is that what you saw—them taking me?" She swallows hard. If Sam and Dean hadn't been there…

Sam shakes his head slowly. "Not them. I saw…blood." He traces a line straight across his forehead with his index finger, and Claire shivers. "Dripping into your eyes and down your nose…" his fingers trace down between his eyebrows and his voice is cold and distant. "I felt someone there with you…someone evil."

Claire remembers Jackie—the entire scene is burned so deeply in her mind, she's not sure the Haitian could have taken it if he'd tried. There'd been a line of blood first, and then the screaming…

She feels abruptly sick.

"He's dead," she whispers, staring down at her hands, and she wonders how she ever believed it. "Sylar's dead."

"I don't know who it was, Claire. I just got a terrible feeling. Fear and triumph…" She looks up as his eyes refocus and she concentrates on not being sick.

"I just wanted to be normal," she whispers, and it feels childish and stupid. Her father died for her, because of this—what she is, what she can do…all the people who want it. All this time she could have been preparing, trying to _do_ something…all this time, she's just been trying to fit in.

"I know," Sam says. "I wanted it, too. But we're not, and sooner or later, we have to stop pretending. Or there won't be any of us left."

She looks up at him and for once, she just wants to know the truth. "The agents. They killed him, didn't they? Mr. Bennett, I mean."

He looks like he's not going to answer but then he nods slowly. "There's no way to know for sure, but I think so. I'm sorry, Claire. He helped a lot of us."

She just nods.

"We're here to help you, okay? We'll find a way to stop Sylar, just give us time."

"You and Dean?"

He nods. "I know he doesn't show it, but my brother's worried about you, too. He just…he doesn’t show it well. Not since…"

He bites his lip for a second and then hitches his chair closer. "Look, there's something you should know," he says quietly, and then he leans in.

***

Dean feels her sit down on the bed next to him. He doesn't bother looking away from the fuzzy 'Wecome Back Cotter' rerun.

"I talked to your brother."

"Congratulations." He doesn't bother to look up.

"He told me about what he can do. What he saw." 

Dean snorts. Typical. Sam loves to share information that can get them both killed. "Yeah."

"He said you lost someone."

It shocks him into looking up and Claire leans back in fear. " _Lost_ , huh?" he finally manages. He's going to kill Sam when he comes back in.

She just nods.

"I got her killed, Claire. But Sam tends to gloss over stuff like that. Probably didn't want to scare you." He laughs bitterly.

She swallows, but doesn't move. "What was she like?"

Christ. What the hell kind of question is that?

He doesn't want to answer, but he does. Not because she deserves to know, but because Jo deserves to be remembered. "She was loud. Brash. She _fought._ "

He remembers the first time she beat him at target practice and gave him that triumphant, narrow-eyed smile.

"She thought we could make a difference. That fighting would help, somehow."

He remembers the first time she saved his life—two quick shots behind him and a dead man on the ground. She'd been shaken, but she'd still grinned victoriously at him as she'd holstered her .38.

"She was normal, like me. No reason to fight except that what they were doing was wrong. It was stupid, really. It wasn't her war."

He remembers the first time she kissed him—just a short press of her lips against his in the high adrenaline aftermath of a battle.

And then he remembers kissing her back, and he can't talk about it anymore.

"She was special," he finishes gruffly, and he gets up.

"Dean," Claire says softly, and he pauses but doesn't turn back.

"I'm sorry. I know…" she trails off and he wishes she'd just leave him the hell alone.

"Noah Bennett…he was my father." She puts a hand on his shoulder, briefly, and then walks past him and out the door, staying close enough that he can see her through the window.

It's the closest thing to privacy she can give him, and he'd be grateful if he wasn't so pissed off. They had no right, either of them, to pour salt in old wounds.

He sits back down on the bed and tries not to think…

The way Jo used to trace her fingers over his face or the way her eyes had sparkled when she laughed, or how full her lips had been, or how perfect she'd been for him in more ways than he could ever count.

He tries and he fails.

***

Her hands shake a little as they head back to the café in the morning. Dean is driving and seems to be trying to watch the road, the sky, the trees and the road behind them all at once. Sam has checked his .45 about ten times since they got in.

It's seeming like less and less of a good idea as the café gets closer, but knowing Sylar's out there…she can't just leave Andy alone with that. Even if she has to admit what she is, even if he hates her for it, she has to warn him.

They slow to a crawl before turning into the parking lot, but no one swarms out of the trees and there are no cars that she doesn't recognize. Her heart leaps when she sees Andy's old Volkswagon. "He's here," she breathes, and Dean nods curtly in response.

"If we tell you to move, you do it, got it? No questions, no second thoughts." Dean parks and pulls a gun from his shoulder holster. "This has to be quick, Claire."

She wishes for one short moment that she could go back to when things were all right. And then she realizes there never was one.

"Claire?" Dean asks. It's a warning and concern, all rolled into one.

"I know," she says, and she gets out of the car. They flank her like bodyguards and then she takes the few steps to the kitchen door. A deep breath, and then she's through.

Anna's the only one in the kitchen, and she looks up, startled. Her mouth gapes open as she catches sight of Sam and Dean, and she steps back.

"Hi, Anna," Claire says. There's a vague fear in the cook's eyes, and Claire knows now, really _knows_ that she can't ever come back.

When she catches sight of Andy she forgets it all—she had no idea how scared she was for him until now. "Andy," she calls out, and she runs to him, throws her arms around his neck and squeezes. "Oh, God," she whispers, "You're all right."

She pulls back after a long moment, and his arms are still at his sides, one hand tucked in his pocket. His eyes are wide and fearful.

"Claire, back up," Dean says in a low voice, and when she looks back at him he's got his gun out.

"No," she says quietly. She agreed to follow orders, but not this. He may not be right, but he's still _Andy_. She can't watch him die.

"Claire…"

"Not this."

She hears the low beep of Andy's cell and she turns back to see him dialing furiously. She reaches for the phone at the same time Dean tackles him.

The phone goes skittering across the floor and Claire screams.

Dean has his gun in Andy's face; Andy's gibbering, "Oh, God, no, I don't even _know_ her, they just told me to call. She's dangerous, I _had_ to, please don't hurt me…"

"Dean!" she yells. She's desperately afraid Dean will kill him, and he doesn't even know her. He thinks she's the enemy.

The Haitian wiped her out of his life.

"Claire, Dean, come on!" Sam shouts behind her, and he's already headed for the door.

She waits until Dean lowers his gun and then she follows Sam.

"Stay here," Sam orders, going out first. He stays low and heads for the car.

Dean nudges her and nods and she has no choice—she follows Sam and leaves her old life behind.

She stays low and runs for the car, and there's a squeal of tires and shouting from inside the café. She has time to hope that Dean and Andy are okay, and then she hears the _crack_ of a gunshot and tastes dirt. The pain takes a few seconds to hit her, flaring out sharply from the middle of her back, and then she blacks out.

***

Dean sees her fall in slow motion and memory merges with reality in a horrifying collage.

He squeezes off a few shots behind him and gets to her in moments—and it's still an eternity too late. Her fingers scrape weakly at the ground, but he knows from experience that there's nothing he can do for her.

He can't leave her. It's stupid and likely to get him killed, but he kneels anyway and lifts her in front of him. She's light, maybe 100 pounds. She feels like a child, limp in his arms.

It's the weight of failure that slows him; he hears Sam's voice rough and high in the distance. There are gunshots in the background but all he knows is the warmth of the blood on his hands and the open door of the Impala.

He tosses Claire into the back seat ahead of him and slides in beside her, and then Sam's peeling out before Dean can even get the door closed.

There's blood all over, and her head is at an odd angle. He feels numb as he straightens her limbs and the hem of her skirt. Her hair is streaked with blood, and her arm. Everywhere he's touched her, there's blood. 

"Oh, God," Sam says, "It wasn't supposed to be like this. It wasn't supposed to be _them._ "

" _Them?_ " Dean asks. It's so much better to be angry. "What the fuck was it _supposed_ to be, Sam! What were we saving her from?"

Dean barely catches Sam's response. "Sylar. It was supposed to be _Sylar_."

Sam hits a pothole and Claire's chest heaves and Dean hears the wet sputter of breath and blood.

He's pretty sure he's going to puke.

It gets abruptly worse—she wheezes again and then coughs, and her body's shaking and she's making horrible noises, and he can't breathe.

Oh, God, he can't breathe.

It's like the endless minutes Jo took to die, choking on her own blood—the longest five minutes of his life, holding her and whispering nonsense and begging her not to go. Her blood had soaked through his jeans and his shirt and covered his hands, and he'd stroked her hair and left streaks of red behind like sin.

The sounds get worse. Harsh gurgles, and Claire's thrashing and coughing and spitting up blood in a fine spray all over his face and clothes, and he thinks he might pass out.

She rolls, coughing violently, and then spits something out and takes deep breaths, and she sounds suspiciously like she's not dying anymore.

"Dean, what's happening?" Sam's voice is shaking, and Dean is glad because he's supposed to be the big brother. The strong one. Maybe Sam won't notice that he's falling apart back here.

"She's alive," he finally says.

Claire looks up at him. "Damn," she says, running her hands over the blood streaks on her blouse. The worst of it is soaking into the Impala's seat and he can't even manage to be upset.

"Ruined my favorite shirt," Claire says with a weak smile.

Dean gets his head out the window just before he loses his breakfast.

***

Claire's shirt stiffens and sticks to her as the blood dries, but it's better than the alternative. She thinks about everything her dad could be doing now if he was like her. All the people he'd be helping and the clandestine visits he'd be making at the café. _He'd_ be making a difference.

Sam is driving dirt track after dirt track, and Claire is getting the feeling that he doesn't have any more idea of where they're going than she does. At this point, they're just running. Because of her. Because of the people who want her.

She's been hidden, protected and sheltered her entire life. From this. From Sylar and the Organization and anyone who might try to hurt her.

The horrible irony of it is, the people who had tried to protect her were far more fragile than she was. And now her father and Hana and all those nameless people who had helped them—all those people are gone. It's just her, now, and the brothers that are trying to keep her safe and are still just as fragile as her father was.

Dean's sitting next to her, shoved against the door so he's not sitting in her blood. His face is pale and he won't look at her, and she wonders if he's thinking about the girl he lost.

She wonders if he wishes it was her instead of Claire, alive and well and sitting in a pool of her own blood in the back seat.

She doesn't blame him a bit. That girl tried to make a difference.

***

Dean is furious by the time the car stops. He doesn't think about exactly why. She nearly got them killed, and that's enough.

Sam's managed to find them another backwater hotel and Dean doesn't bother to grab anything out of the car when he jumps out—he just heads for the check-in window and drops a few bills. "Need a room," he says gruffly. "Two doubles if you got 'em."

The old man behind the counter drops the newspaper to peer at the bills and, in a trick that has nothing to do with the supernatural, makes them disappear. 

In return, Dean gets a grunt and a scarred neon keychain with a '4' on it, and then he's headed down the line of doors and the old man is back to his paper.

Claire and Sam trail after him a few minutes later. Sam dumps their duffel on the left-hand bed—the one marginally closer to the door—and then, keeping his voice low, "I need to talk to you."

Dean turns away. He can't talk right now. He doesn't want to listen to his brother put a silver lining on this. If he has to hear about how wonderful the girl and her ability are, he'll hurt something.

"Dean—" Sam tries to take his arm, but Dean twists away.

"I'm fine, Sam. Salt the windowsills, will you?" The supernatural monsters are dwindling compared to the genetically funky ones, but one mistake and they'll all be just as dead. 

Well, all but Claire. Must be nice to hide away, knowing nothing can hurt you.

" _Now_ , Dean," and Sam grabs his arm and digs in.

For a second—just a single second—Dean is tempted to put a fist in Sam's solar plexus, just to see his face blanch white as he fights for breath.

Then he unclenches his jaw carefully and says, "Okay." 

He can feel Claire's eyes on them as they go outside and Sam closes the door. "What is your problem?" Sam asks angrily.

Dean smiles dangerously. "My _problem_?" He takes a moment. "Let me think, Sam. Maybe my problem is that we just about got killed for Miracle Girl, there. You decided to risk us both over her when we were _supposed_ to be working quietly. Under the radar. Hell, man, that was your idea to begin with!"

"Yeah, well, plans change."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, but apparently only when _you're_ changing them. And what about Sylar? Were you ever going to tell me it was him in your vision? Or were you just going to wait until he ate your damn brain, and let me put the pieces together then?"

Sam's eyes narrow in frustration. "I didn't _know_ it was him. Not for sure. Not until I talked to Claire—I think she's dealt with him before."

Dean sneers. "And by 'dealt with,' you mean she bravely ran away."

"She's practically a kid, Dean. She did what she could." He closes his eyes and his lips thin in frustration. Finally his eyes open again and his voice is low. "I know she's not Jo, but _that_ isn't her fault, either. She deserves our help."

"Damn right, she isn't Jo. She's not even _close_." Claire can obviously take care of herself. In fact, it seems to be what she does best. That she can't defend herself—that's her own damn fault. With an ability like hers, she should be in the thick of things, not sitting on the sidelines waiting for Daddy to save her.

She doesn't deserve to be here.

Dean chokes on all the things he wants to say and the fury that lies under it all.

Sam sets a heavy hand on his shoulder. "She's not like us, Dean. But that doesn't mean she's not a good person."

Dean doesn't answer because he knows if opens his mouth he'll cry like a damn girl.

***

Claire turns on the T.V. when the brothers go outside. She knows perfectly well that Dean's angry, and she knows it isn't her fault. Not really.

Knowing doesn't help.

Footage of someone flying upward pulls her attention back to the television.

_"…when President Patrelli flew into the air and disappeared. Let's see that again, Bill…"_

Claire watches a slow motion image of Nathan Patrelli pushing off the ground and hurtling upward. A puff of white is all that registers a sudden change in direction.

It makes her heart drop into her stomach. Nathan had turned his back on everyone with abilities after the explosion. He'd talked about illnesses and control and hope of a cure like it was leprosy or something. 

For him to _fly_ in front of the entire world…she can't imagine anything dire enough for that. She doesn't _want_ to.

_"…protesters have wounded two workers and destroyed one of the President's outreach centers in downtown New York. There are claims now that he has been part of a conspiracy to bring his kind into power, and angry crowd are gathered at his hotel and the White House. Bill, it's looking like this could get out of control fast…"_

Scenes of D.C. and New York—fires and angry crowds—flash across the screen as the reporter speaks.

"Sam," Claire calls weakly, her eyes pinned to the T.V. "Dean…" She watches an angry mob flip a police car on its side. _"Sam!"_ She yells a little louder and the door finally opens.

"Claire, what's wrong?" Sam asks. Dean has his gun out and at the ready.

She can only point as the story unfolds, and they're all suddenly still as they watch fires rise over outreach centers and police move in on unruly crowds.

"I think it's time I learned to fight," Claire says quietly.

Sam rests a comforting hand on her shoulder as they watch the riots start.

***

Dean wants to stay angry. It's easier than hurting.

It's easier than _remembering._

But it's also not fair—not to her, not to him, not to Jo.

He empties the magazine of the SIG before he slides it back in and hands it to Claire. 

She cocks her head at him in a question.

"You didn't think you were going to start with a loaded one, did you?"

She gives him a small smile and sits down, listening intently as he talks her through the cleaning process and lectures her on general safety.

"Thank you," she says finally.

It's not the lesson she's thanking him for. He just nods. 

She's not Jo, but Sam's right—she's still a good person. She still deserves a chance, and if she wants to learn, he's damn well going to make sure she learns the right way.

"Okay," Dean says as she finishes cleaning. "Function check. Slide to the rear and check the chamber."

"But I just checked it before I cleaned it."

"Do it again."

"But I—"

"Claire!"

She bites her lip briefly and then does as she's told, peering into the chamber before reaching in with her pinky. "Clear," she says.

Dean nods. "Dry fire down."

She learns quickly, he notes with pride. She holds the gun with both hands, just the way he showed her, and fires at an angle into the carpet. There's a soft click.

"Okay, replace the magazine and check the release."

She follows the instructions to the letter and Dean nods. "Good."

A flash of red across the bottom of the T.V. screen distracts him briefly. The reporter is looking worse for wear—things in New York have been escalating.

_"This just in,"_ she announces. _"Terrorist Hiro Nakamura has been killed in an attack at the Pentagon. The President has been severely injured, and early reports are pointing at his own brother, Peter Patrelli, as Nakamura's accomplice. We go live to the White House where Presidential Advisor Dr. Mohinder Suresh is holding a press conference."_

Dean watches Claire removes the magazine again and lay the SIG on the table before turning to watch. Her movements are measured and careful and she's focused. She seems to understand, finally, what's at stake.

The news is grim—Hiro was one of the most powerful members of the resistance, and a figurehead for those like him and Sam—the people working on the edges. And Peter has abilities like no one else Dean has ever met. He's even a good leader when he bothers. They've had their differences, certainly, but Dean hates to think of what the Organization will do to him.

Doctor Suresh is already speaking, his voice confident and sincere. _"…no harm to anyone. His only concern was that he be able to help people of every walk of life in this country, without being judged by his own unique ability. The President had not wished to announce anything until testing was completed, but he wanted me to share this with you._

_"A cure is in the final stages of testing. A cure that the President fully intends to receive as soon as he is well. He wants you all to know that he considers your safety of the utmost importance, whether you are afflicted by this mutation or not. He has dedicated himself and his staff to uniting America again."_

Dean snorts. "Yeah. By putting you all in the ground."

The administration has always been good at pretty speeches, but Dean knows it's lip service. Sam has the scars to prove it. Dean just has nightmares.

The screen flashes back to the reporter, and as she speaks an old mug shot of Peter flashes up on the screen beside her. _"…currently in custody. Homeland Security is working to ascertain if he and Nakamura had associates that might attempt another attack._

_"Mr. Patrelli has a history of mental illness, and has been estranged from his brother since the destruction of New York. White House correspondents have not yet told us if they believe this is a contributing factor."_

"We have to help him," Claire says in a low voice. Her face is pale and resolute.

Dean shakes his head slowly. He can understand the desire to storm in there and save somebody, but it's not practical. "Claire, we can't. It would be a suicide mission. Peter's more powerful than any of us. If he can't break out, we sure as hell can't break in." He hesitates to add his suspicions, but if she's going to be in this battle, she deserves the truth. "There's a good chance he's already dead."

She shakes her head stubbornly. "No. He can heal like me. If we get to him soon, there's nothing they can do to him that he won't survive." She meets his eyes and it's not idealism he sees there—it's conviction.

"You know him."

"He saved my life." She pauses. "He's all the family I have left." There's no emotion in her words, and that's what starts to sway him. 

She follows up doggedly. "If Sylar gets hold of him, it'll be ten times worse than if he gets hold of me. Peter absorbs powers from people. He's already got mine. And a million others, by this time. We _have_ to get him out of there."

Dean can't quite stop the side of his mouth from quirking up. This girl learns fast—she makes a hell of an argument.

He turns to Sam. "Well, she's got you beat on suicide missions." He sighs and turns back to her. "Guess you'd better learn to shoot, huh?"

Claire's smile blooms slowly—triumphant. "Show me."

"Sam, I think it's time to call in the cavalry. We seem to have a war on our hands."

Sam nods slowly. "It's time."

Dean follows Claire outside.

There are others out there, right now. Waiting. Picking at the edges and waiting for the right moment to stand up and really make a difference.

Dean takes a deep breath and hands Claire his SIG and a full magazine.

The moment is now.


End file.
